“Alec,” says the little gal, “I been tole (Rose tole me) how you like t’ help couples that’s in love. It’s what made me first like you.”
“Honey! Then you’ll help me?”
“Shore, I will.”
I give her a whoppin’ smack right on that cute, little, square chin of hern. “You darlin’!” I says. And then I put another where it’d do the most good.
“Alec,” she says, when she could git a word in edgeways, “this widda comin’ is mighty fortu-nate. Bergin’s too ole fer the gals at the eatin’-house. But Mrs. Bridger’ll suit. Now, I’ll lope down to the Gap right soon t’ visit her, and you go back t’ town t’ see how him goin’ home with her come out.”
“Mace,” I says, “if we just can help such a fine feller t’ git settled. But it’ll be a job–a’ awful job. She’s a nice, affectionate little thing. Why, he’d be a blamed sight happier. And he likes the kid––”
“Let’s not count our chickens ’fore they hatch,” breaks in Mace.
Wal, I hiked fer town, and found the sheriff right where he was settin’ that mornin’. But, say! he was a changed man! No shakin’, no caved-in look–nothin’ of that kind. He was gazin’ thoughtful at a knot in the deepot platform, his mouth was part way open, and they was a sorta sickly grin spread all over them features of hisn.
I stopped byside him. “Wal, Sheriff,” I says, inquirin’.
He sit up. “Aw–is that you, Cupid?” he ast. (I reckon I know a guilty son-of-a-gun when I see one!)